Time of reconciliation, time of blessing
by Galadwen1977
Summary: A few years after the Flight of Noldor, Finarfin lives in darkened Tirion, constantly working and alone. His beloved Eärwen stays in Alqualondë, their children went East with Fëanor. The time has come to try and remedy old wrongs – and maybe to gain something in exchange.


**This story was originally written in Czech for last year's "Christmas in Middle-earth" challenge. But as there was no Christmas or even solstice before the creation of Sun and Moon, I wrote at least a winter story from Valinor after Darkening. Enjoy.**

**Time of reconciliation, time of blessing**

It seemed as if there was nothing at all outside the circle of light marked by the Fëanorean crystal above the table. There was blackness in the corners of the office and outside, behind the open door to the terrace, darkness impenetrable, ancient, as in that most terrible moment when the madness broke out. Stars were hidden behind clouds and draft was silently intruding inwards, reaching out its icy fingers to everything it achieved.

The energy hid deep into the roots of the trees, into the cold soil. The fading passed, the days of rest came. How strong Yavanna's power must be over this country, Finarfin thought, gazing into the darkness behind the terrace railing. After all, even without light and without hope, the earth still swells with life, gives birth to grain and fruits, no matter that they are pale and sickly. It wakes up and puts itself to sleep, as if the soft glow of the Golden and Silver Tree still accompanied it to waking and rest.

Every now and then, a cautious light flashed through the blackness of the eternal night: a flash of the lamp, a twitch of the torch. Nothing more. How many times had he tried to return at least an appearance of normality to Tirion, at least a reflection of its original daily routine, by hanging lanterns on the corners and gables of houses and setting fires to iron baskets on larger squares? In the first few days after such measures, everything ran as it should: light returned and gave them the confidence that everything would turn for the better. After some time... the inhabitants kind of resigned. They were tired of the eternal pursuit and refilling of oil, the everyday checking if the artificial crystals weren´t fading and extinguishing, and the world began to sink into the darkness again. After a long effort, the routine was introduced: a "day", it means lights on the squares and at least at the most important crossroads. A "night" means lonely pedestrians with candle lanterns in their hands and occasionally shining windows of a house that has not been abandoned. Life retreated into buildings, especially after the maturation period had passed and the time of winter and sleep had come.

And the sky remained gloomy, with everyday rain and drizzle, a low fog shrouding the little lights that could be maintained… The cold that the people of Tirion had never known before crept into their bones. Something had to happen to the weather that had changed so strangely. If it was just the weather.

Finarfin pressed his hands into the railing, closing his eyes. He turned to his children, one after another. Finrod. Angrod. Aegnor. Artanis. Deaf darkness, whistling wind. The emptiness of the distance and the dark fate. He knew he would feel nothing more. He had felt nothing for weeks. Maybe for years.

Something cold touched his raised face. Forehead. The back of his hand. Turning toward the uncertain trembling of the light crystal inside his study, he recognized a fragile snowflake on his wrist. It melted in the heat of his skin quickly, but others replaced it, more and more, until it covered his hair and shoulders like a white hood.

It was snowing in Tirion, for the first time in its history.

"My Lord?"

Looking in, behind the partially open glass door of the study, he saw a darker shadow across the room. He took a deep breath of the icy air. Someone's presence meant news, usually bad. A work, decisions to make, a duty to command, so alien to him.

"My lord, are you here?"

Shaking off the layer of flakes, he slipped through the study door and entered the circle of light.

"Here I am, Menelluinil."

Only a few of old-time servants remained in Finarfin's household. Most followed his sons on Fëanor's deathly expedition. Some of the rest, the less faithful, scattered away without saying goodbye, others demanded permission and Finarfin did not hold them - barely every tenth dweller remained in Tirion, more than two-thirds of them were women, and all willing hands were needed to work in abandoned workshops and farms to keep the city going. Only gradually did the remaining residents realize that much of what had previously worked completely automatically stopped now, because there was no one to do it. From small, everyday tasks to the biggest, key tasks that no city can do without.

Menelluinil and her husband remained with their new king. Finarfin, who didn't need much himself, tried to dissuade them, but they didn't leave him, and he was grateful for that in secret. He couldn't imagine managing it all without any friendly face nearby. And Menelluinil was the one he knew literally from his first breath: she belonged to his mother's ladies, helped to deliver him into the world, looked after him like a nanny when he was a child - and then after his own children. They needed each other more than ever: after all, the three descendants of Menelluinil and Tindome went to the East.

Without asking, the steward's wife now placed a canvas-covered basket on the table in the middle of the files. She looked toward the cold fireplace.

"It's cold here, my lord. I'll make a fire for you."

Cold? He didn't realize whether there was cold all around him, or inside him. Same as the darkness. He was certain that the fire would not be able drive it away.

"No need," he said. "Thank you. I'm warm enough."

The woman shrugged and pulled the cloth out of the basket to reveal what she had brought, rubbed the canvas with her fingertips.

"My lord, a messenger from Valmar was here."

"Didn't he ask to see me?" Finarfin shivered, looking into her embarrassed face. Maybe he should have let her make a fire. Even if only to postpone bad news for a few heartbeats. "Did he at least leave me a letter?"

"Just an oral message, aran."

She called him a king to keep her distance. He didn't have to ask any more.

"Findis won't come," he said confidently. The last of his siblings, the eldest sister, the only one who didn't go across the sea. And the last one whose help he could hope for. At least the others had sent a letter, longer or shorter, and their messages were now lying in an uneven pile in front of him, half pinched against the table top with a dinner basket.

…_You know I love you as a brother, Arafinwë. That is why I will stay where I am. Now you need all your tact and diplomatic skill to settle the relationship between us, Vanyar and Teleri. My presence in Tirion would only make things worse. The overproud wife of the rebel and the murderer, the mother of the ruthless killers who desires power, that would I be called. Forgive me…_

…_Son, the days in which I was queen of Noldor ended at the hour when your father and I went each our own way. I always knew he loved Fëanáro more than he loved me and more than he loved you, his other children. I knew he would throw away everything for his mad love. I had no idea that he would give his life as well. And you must understand that your people will not accept a vanyarin queen without the noldorin king at her side…_

…_And I hear from earshot that the Powers confirmed you as the new ruler of Noldor. Who am I to resist their will, aran Arafinwë? So how could I help you? I will wait for the day of the return of my lord - your brother - and our children, and if they will not come, I intend to stay in my parents' house…_

…_With all due respect to you, sir, I have ended with Finwions forever and curse the day I made a promise to Curufinwë Atarinkë and gave birth to a child he had stolen from me now…_

"I'm sorry, Arafinwë," Menelluinil said quietly, as she used to say when he was still the young son of the king. "So sorry. Princess Findis is happy in King Ingwë's court. She does not want to leave her mother, and if she does, then only to go to Lórien and enter the service of Lady Estë, as she had planned before."

"The service of Lady Estë," he repeated bitterly, dropping behind the desk. "Doesn't she understand that I need her help more? I wasn't ready for this, Menelluinil. Fëanáro, perhaps. Nolofinwë, no doubt. But I have never been a courtier and never, even in my worst dreams, should I have been a ruler."

The woman silently straightened the collapsed pile of papers at the corner of the table, pulled out the plates of food from the basket and served them in a vacant space. That's not how it should be, she thought. Never. Not even the king's youngest son should live like this - let alone now when he himself is the king.

"Tindome thinks you shouldn't stay here, my lord," she said, formal again, while he was looking at his dinner - no, through it, she corrected her impression - as if he wasn't sure what he was watching. "Now that the situation has stabilized a bit… The king should keep the court in the palace. Prince Nolofinwë moved to Finwë´s Halls when he was the regent."

"No!" Finarfin exclaimed, literally dismayed, and jumped up. He shoved his shoulder into the low-hanging Fëanorean crystal, the light began to stir wildly and the shadows in the room started to dance like drunked. Pictures hanging on the walls were emerging out from the gloom. The faces of the king's children, as they once were, pure and open in their youth and innocence. Quick sketches and children's drawings created by themselves: sea landscapes, rocks, buildings of Tirion, siblings and cousins at wild games and celebrations. An engagement portrait of Finarfin and his future wife, made in Alqualondë long ago – they both were no less young and innocent there. Full of love.

The light calmed out and the darkness clung back to the walls.

"No," Finarfin repeated the second time, more quietly. "I will stay here. I don't have a court and I'm not going to hold it anytime soon. After all, my own sister left me, preferring the blessings of Valmar. So - I don't blame her. I understand it in a way. I can get along with my experts and advisors once in a while at the library. And our people don't care if I rule them from the royal palace on Túna or from the stable under the walls. If I have to be left alone for the rest of my days, let it be at my home. Let your husband forgive me." With mechanical motions, he loaded everything she had pulled out back into the basket, took the canvas from her hands and covered the intact dinner. "Thank you for the food, but I'm not hungry," he said firmly. "I will work a little yet. There is still the matter of a malfunctioning water supply in the eastern part of the city, and it will get worse because it started to freeze and we are by no means prepared for that. The pipes are routed over the surface, so we will have to do something before… "

"Arafinwë," Menelluinil kindly placed her palm on his hand, as he was half-prepared to take a pen from the inkwell. "Stop it. You've been working all these years since... since you returned to Tirion. You have been caring about us, the city, the country. You don't need Findis to help you at work or to rule as a queen instead of you. Whether or not you were ready, now you are a capable organizer and a good king, exactly the one we needed. I am sure that even Nolofinwë, and by no means Feanáro, would be able to stand up with greater honor in a similar situation. But it seems to me that you should finally start looking after yourself instead of lighting and piping. You're not alone. You wouldn't have to be."

"I have no one to turn to," he said stubbornly. Menelluinil understood how complicated it must be for her master: he was the youngest child in a large family where nephews began to show up shortly after his birth. And then his own offspring, one after another. He had always been in the midst of a crowd of relatives and friends, children and adults - sometimes neglected, but never, never alone in his life. Only just now. It was not that the new King of Noldor was not coping with his duties and tasks. That he would not have enough will and ability or that the people would not be willing to listen to him. The real problem was quite different: he had no one to lean on. No one to help him: not with the weight of his crown, but with his own grief.

So she did what she would never dare to do with Finwë or his older sons - because she had always loved this one, the youngest and least proud. She took his face in her hands, like when he was a child, unhappy with the strife between his older brothers he both loved.

"Don't lie. You have someone to turn to. You're just afraid to try, because you feel that this last refusal would break you."

"Menelluinil... She has already rejected me."

_Crying in the wind. The wailing of seagulls mixed with the whistle of the storm and the laments of survivors. The pearly streets have darkened, the lights without the distant glow of the Trees are somehow dimmed. Those who come from the north are hunched under the icy whirlwinds and weighed down by grief. Repentant. Sorry. They stop to see hastily erected palisades from dry logs where hospitable streets ran up from the coast before. It is not a real barrier, no real obstacle is even a guard with light bows on its other side, but it is a stomach blow, a hit directly in the heart, in the most vulnerable place. It's a symbol._

"_Our King Olwë will not see you, Prince of Noldor. Neither you or your kin," one of the armed Teleri calls to Finarfin, an arrow resting on his bowstring._

"_I come…" Finarfin swallows dry, "I come to ask for forgiveness. None of those who return with me are to blame for what happened."_

"_Our King Olwë will not see you," the guard repeats. "Leave if you do not wish to break the peace of Valinor for the second time."_

"_And the princess?" Finarfin looks up at the makeshift wall._

_There is no slight compassion in the sailor's eyes. They are dark, do not dodge. On his left cheek, there is barely healed cut, deep to the bone: from the corner of his eye to his chin._

"_Eärwen, Swan Maiden of Alqualondë, mourns her murdered brothers. She renounced you, Noldo. Go back to yours. Or go with your cursed king, to your doom and death."_

"You were looking for Eärwen in her darkest hour," Menelluinil said. "But will you let a single dark hour take all the light of your lives?"

"It's too late, my dear friend," the king sighed wearily. "That hour has already come, and indeed it has taken everything. My brothers, my children; my wife. Eärwen… I no longer dare to turn to her for ósanwë. I've tried it long and steadily, but I can't anymore. I kneel as a supplicant before her walls, but she keeps me away. How could she forgive me for taking her children away and letting them go to death alone?"

"That was their decision, not yours," she kept her hands on his face. "Neither hers. You have returned, and it is in your power to rectify at least what can be rectified. Am I wrong to remember that you were married in Alqualondë, in the middle of the rest period, in the winter? That day must be close."

"It would be," he smiled sadly, "if we still had days. The light of Mingling was flowing through the pass into the city, on the pier where we stood when Olwë gave us his blessing and we exchanged our promises. We were so young, so eager... So much we wanted to be together… and not just a couple, but a family. And we were - when we… right then…" His voice failed.

When, she thought, at that very time, in the same time of rest and married only for a few days, they conceived - to wonderment of many - their winter baby. The firstborn son, who was born in Alqualondë and became the golden spark of their live.

"We'll lose him," he continued in a whisper. "We´ll lose them all. I know it, Menelluinil. I was supposed to go with them and look for death rather than live with the knowledge that none of our children would ever return to us. "

"Ever is a very long time, Arafinwë. You despair, and your forebodings are full of grief, but I tell you this: they'll do something great. They will enter songs and legends, and one day, you will have them in your arms again, as you once did. I'm sure of that. And you, their parents, should wait for them. Together."

The king wept. Menelluinil hugged him softly and held him close as if he were one of her lost children. They both needed it.

"Go," she said finally. "Go to her. Tindome will take care of your water supply and your lanterns and food supplies and everything needed. This is more important. Go, put up with Olwë and your lady. I'm sure the two of them have already forgiven you. You cannot remain separated forever from what is most dear to you." From the city where his love was born, where his children came into the world, where half of his heart remains. City on the coast, red with blood, that to the guilty and to the innocent brought the same curse of hatred.

xxx

The world outside Finarfin's house was white and sparkling in the light of his lantern. The horse sailed through the light snow like through a surf. Before hour had shifted to the time when once Telperion's light had been fading and Laurelin´s igniting, it had stopped snowing and the sky had cleared. The stars dawned and thanks to them there was light enough to see on the white blanket for the horse and the rider to go safely. They rested only when an animal needed it, and more often Finarfin just dismounted and led it on the reins rather than stopping. Frost drenched into the skin, as strong as it had once been only in the north, in Araman or in the toughest winters around Fëanor's Formenos. Over time, humid and warmer air from the sea, smelling of salt, began to break through the mountains. The fallen snow melted, then disappeared and the sky remained clear. Carnil and Luinil burned low above the horizont, slightly higher there were Menelmacar, Remmirath, Wilwarin and toward the north Valacirca, a symbol of hope. And Finarfin truly needed some hope.

By the time he got to Alqualondë, he and the horse were almost at the end of their strenght. He was painfully aware that he had left Tirion on his first impulse, without thinking and thoughtlessly, as his older brothers or Fingon had done many times - he, sensible, thoughtful person, never. In his saddlebags he didn't even have enough things to change out of his wet clothing, and he was dressed only in his old home clothes, in which he was accustomed to work in the evenings and over which he just pulled off his warm cloak on his quick departure. He wore nothing to represent himself as the current leader of Noldor. He did not look like a king coming to visit another king: he was without his retinue, without jewellery, without elaborate clothing. He felt more like a foolish young man who had run away from his teachers across the garden fence just to see his beloved girl at least from the corner of his eye.

And maybe it was right thing.

Alqualondë has changed. Instead of a makeshift palisade, there were stone walls with unfinished gates in the mouth of the main streets. As he walked down the hill to the city - the horse was too tired to bother him - he watched in the stellar light the construction, desperately clumsy and imperfect, reminiscent that Teleri never had been great architects. They learned gradually on their own, by trial and by mistake. Similarly, as if Fëanor had learned without prior experience shipbuilding, had he not decided that it made sense to obtain the ships effortlessly and quickly, albeit at the cost of a terrible crime.

In the streets of Tirion and on the way, Finarfin was determined enough, or simply thinking little. Now he felt a biting, scorching terror. Because what remains for him if Eärwen refuses to see him again? What remains for him if Olwë rejects him - not only as a son-in-law, almost a son, but mainly as a king? That would be a double failure, because Noldor needed friends. They could not forever remain gloomy in their city and its immediate surroundings and mourn for the evil they did not cause. At the same time, they would have no other choice.

His boots soaked with snow sludge and mud. He paused, put them off to pour the chilled water out of them - and suddenly, as in the enlightenment, he understood what he had to do.

The ground was unpleasantly cold and full of sharp frosts, but after a few steps he could get used to it - or his feeling in his bare feet had left him. He draped his winter cloak clipped with the copula of Finwë's coat of arms across the saddle, staying in his colorless working gown, without shoes and, except for the wedding ring on his right hand, without any jewellery, with his head uncovered.

It was amazing how invisible he suddenly became by such a simple act. He went down to the gate, without any of the passers-by giving him a second glance. He could go unnoticed to the city and the palace if he wanted - but he knew he couldn't. If his pilgrimage had any meaning at all, he had to make it publicly, before all. Not sneaking to Eärwen through the backyards like a thief in the dark.

He knew the guard in the unfinished gate from times when he was more at home in Alqualondë than in Tirion. In that he was lucky. He stopped. He took a deep breath.

"Maiwëndil," he called him by his name, continuing in Telerin: "I know I'm not welcome. Yet I beg you to allow me to speak to the King."

For a few moments the Teler stared blankly at him, and Finarfin felt, without looking back, more and more curious, cold glances. Stonemasons working on the construction of walls. Fishermen. Housekeepers from nearby houses. Another armed guard - by Valar, where so many armed guards suddenly emerged here, in this peaceful and quiet corner of the world?

"Arafinwë!" Maiwëndil blurted in disbelief before remembering that he was no longer talking to a friend from his teenage years. "I mean... Lord Arafinwë Finwion..." he corrected himself.

More and more hostile eyes. Weapons readily: long knives, fishing spears, bows. But still no naked steel or loud curses. That was hopeful. More hopeful than then.

"Please," the Noldo repeated. "I have to speak to the King. I come in peace. I have no weapon or escort."

The Teler stared at him. How hard, thought Arafinwë, is it for him, to say to a former comrade: I hate you? Go to the bad end and leave us alone?

"You may enter, King of Noldor," the guard finally said after a long hesitation. "Leave your horse and luggage here. You!" he called to one of the light-footed boys he probably had on his patrol. "Go ahead, to the King. Tell him what's going on here."

Finarfin was surrounded by a circle of torches. He wasn't quite sure what this meant: whether the guard was protecting him from possible violence from the ever-expanding crowd, or taking him as a criminal to court. He went forward with his head down and his hands hung loose along his body, and the stone pavement, coarser and cooler than he remembered from his young years, painfully tore his bare feet. All around, he heard a whisper at the edge of audibility. A cold wind pulled down the street from the sea to the gate, carrying words away from his ears.

The journey was agonizingly long. He tried not to look beyond the boundaries defined by the guards with the lights, but he understood that the crowd was growing thicker, following them. Like once, the streets were pure white, covered with pink shells and tiny pearls set between the stones of the pavement, but when he stared at them for too long, he saw well-known places and saw in the glare of fire…

…_a paving slippery with blood. And dead, dead all around. Had they not hesitated for too long, had they gone earlier and arrived on time… Could they prevent anything? Or would they just desperately watch the massacre? Would they raise their own weapons to strike… where? And whom? Their brothers and kin who became murderers, or their brothers-in-law and kin, their victims? How could they decide at such a moment, to decide on the lives and deaths of others?_

_But life and death are still being decided. Finarfin is watching whilst a few steps away from him, at the corner, his eldest son is kneeling on the ground, his face tightened in concentration and blood spurting between his fingers pressed against the chest of his silver-haired cousin. The Telerin prince looks spiritless, as pale as a canvas; too much life-giving fluid probably leaked from the wound before they found him. Finrod is inexperienced; he has talent, learns fast, but haven't had enough time, enough experiences. He is as young as the boy who is dying under his hands. Or not? Red stream is slowing, turning into a thin trickle, disappearing. The wound is closing, the catching breath of the wounded is calming down. Or is it stopping?_

_Finrod weeps in silence, trembling with exhaustion and helpless anger. When a few locals appears and, without a single word and all the ceremonies, pushes him roughly to the side, taking away their wounded prince, he cannot even rise to his feet. He did his best, and neither he nor his father would know if he had saved his cousin. The cobblestones around him, his hands and his doublet, all is soaked in blood._

Finarfin stumbled and got his balance back at the last moment. The pavement on the corner had long been cleaned by rain, and he knew as little about the fate of his young nephew as he had then. And about his son... His first-born, golden-haired child was not afraid of the curse, he disappeared into the darkness, out of reach. Maybe he had sailed on a stolen and blood-drenched ship, taken from his own cousins, to meet the same bloody fate…

No, he wasn't allowed to think about it. He had to concentrate on here and now; the past cannot be changed and he cannot influence a future of other people. Just his own.

He secretly hoped that what he had to do, would at least take place inside, beyond the walls of Olwë's hall. Before the King's closest counsellors, but without another curious glances and long tongues to speak about the humiliation of the King of Noldor. However, the fact that the Lord of Teleri was waiting for his arrival in the square, on the wide steps outside the palace, was not surprising yet. Finarfin knew this city and its people: far more than Finwë - with his spectacular court and formal ceremonies - Olwë and his descendants were linked to their subjects, and all important matters in Alqualondë were usually solved in the streets, in the open space. That was one of the things that had attracted him so much as a growing boy.

Torches and lanterns were burning all around - it was brighter than it had been once in Telperion's light, though this light flashed red and orange, much like the one playing on the drawn swords of Fëanor and his sons, while they were uttering the words of terrible oath at the top of Túna.

Olwë stood motionless on the steps, robed in a white undercoat flowing from his shoulders to his ankles and the light blue outwear and cloak against the cold of nearly the same length, in full majesty, with a pearl crown on his head. Beneath it, his face was like carved out of mother-of-pearl, stony, without expression. He had his queen next to himself and on either of his sides stood one of his remaining children. Of the three sons of the king, only one was left alive, the eldest, who was not in the harbor when the Fëanoreans arrived. It was too late to help the younger brothers when he finally came there. And Eärwen, pale in the starlight, all in dark blue like a fairy of the depths, without jewellery, without a smile. She returned Finarfin's gaze, but he could not read anything from her eyes, and as he reached for ósanwë, he encountered a stone wall of rejection again.

He walked a few paces before the king, looking up at him; the stairs were gradual to allow them to be crossed by horses or carts, but they still allowed Olwë to tower over his son-in-law like a Vala, distant and inviolable. The king was silent, his face unchanged: cold and snow. Not only the weather in Tirion was turned around, all was inside out, and Finarfin's heart and mind were pinched. He loved Eärwen with all his soul; he loved her father as his own and her city as his own... No, more than his own. And now it was over. He was left alone, trapped between the world of his brothers and the world of his wife, who got into a clash, and how could he fix it now?

There was only one thing left: the ruler's duty. He had to settle what could be settled, so at least the rest of his people could live alongside the rest of the Olwë people in peace and acceptable relations.

He dropped to one knee, then to the other. He lowered his head deeply, until his loose curls slid to the pavement. The crowd murmured. Just look, he thought bitterly, feeling like Fëanor's brother for a second. Explain to all your neighbours, that you saw Noldóran kneeling, barefoot and with his head uncovered, in the mud before your king, as a penitent, as a criminal. I will do anything - if only it helps my people. And even more - if it helps you. To reconcile.

Olwë remained silent, and Finarfin understood that he had no intention of taking a single step forward.

"My lord," he began, his voice shaking. He hoped it was due the cold. "I have dared to come before your people and you to ask you… no, to beg forgiveness on behalf of Noldor of Tirion. We have no right to ask you to forget and forgive. I know that whatever we do or promise, nothing will take back the shed blood and the dead won't rise from their graves. We have no way of redressing the injustice committed by those who are with us, with me, of one blood. Yet I beg you for my people. None of those left on this side of the sea raised a weapon against you. But we do not renounce responsibility for the actions of our kin. If we are to give blood for blood - then I am here in the place of my brothers, and you can ask for it. Or tell me, sir, what else can we do to at least partially remove the guilt and restore peace among our people."

"And what will be solved," Olwë said in a whisper, "when here, where our dear ones bled and died, someone else dies, even in the name of rightful retribution?"

Finarfin raised his eyes for the first time.

"Nothing," he replied sadly. "Blood and death have never solved anything in the days of our fathers under the stars of Lake Cuiviénen and will not solve anything now. Only some hearts may calm down with the feeling that justice has been done. "

"There are such hearts," King of Teleri nodded, "but what they desire is not justice, only headless and pointless revenge. That kind of revenge that brought us all here today. The others must be healed from the pain by time, life, and love." Finally he moved, stepping down to Finarfin and bending to take him by the elbow and lift him off the ground. "Get up, my son. I do not consider you to be the culprit and I forgive your kin and your people - those who remain and the others as well, in the name of my city and my subjects. None of us long for more blood." He embraced Finarfin and added quietly, just for his ears: "I am very afraid that a lot of new grief and other deaths lie before us all, whatever we do. I too loved those who had gone away under the doom, with the dark curse on their heels." He straightened and with his hand on Finarfin's shoulder, he looked at the silent crowd, filling the large square near the palace to the last spot. "Hear the words of your king!" he said in a loud, firm voice. "Arafinwë Ingalaurë, the Lord of Noldor, asks us for forgiveness and reconciliation, and both he will be given to him and his people. Please calm your hearts. Don't let evil take you over. Let us become friends and brothers again, as before the darkness fell between us. Such is the desire of the Valar, who forgave those, who returned and regretted their actions, and recognized Finwë's son as the new king. We should follow their example, because the hate was never able to heal anyone. "

After that, the queen came down the stairs, embraced her son-in-law and kissed him on the forehead.

"Let's go, Arafinwë. Be our guest. You need to get dry and warm."

They took him between them and led him out of the square while he was trying in vain to capture Eärwen's gaze. She was silent, and her soul was like an impregnable fortress.

The chamber in the east wing of the palace was the same one he had lived in on all his visits to Alqualondë, from the first one, as a barely teenage boy, to the last, shortly before their world had collapsed and shattered. Facing the sea with floor-to-ceiling glazed windows through that, on good days, could one go to a wide terrace, listen to the murmur of the waves, and watch children play on the beach under the palace. Now the glass was covered with heavy velvet curtains and there was a friendly fire, burning and cracking in the hearth. Servants brought clean underwear, warm water and light snacks to the guest and slipped out without addressing him.

Finarfin threw off his soaked upper clothing, sat on a low stool, and stretched his frozen feet to the fireplace. In the light of the fire, he saw purple cuts and scratches on them; there was icy mud drying between his fingers. He was accustomed to walking without shoes - but not in the middle of the winter, the hardest one anyone could remember. Bringing the basin to the ground and plunging the sore feet into the hot water was a relief for a moment; until the wounded and cracked skin began to feel again.

This is a small thing, he thought, pulling his feet out of the water and setting them back near the flames. Trivia compared to everything that has happened here. To the people here. Yet everyone obeyed their king, and no one told me a bad word.

"You have hurt and bloodied your feet. You humiliated yourself in front of the whole city. Do you feel so responsible for your brothers' actions?"

He didn't hear her come in. He did not hear the door creaking or cloth rustling. How long had she been behind him?

"Eärwen," he said.

"Will you answer me?"

"I feel responsible for my people. We have to live on somehow, and it is not possible with undone injustice. And for Teleri my heart is bleeding."

Eärwen moved to the wide bed and laid down the outer garments she brought.

"Yours. They stayed here when we were all here… the last time."And she thought_, the last time before_. "You've lost weight since then. Perhaps they will still fit you. Can I?" she asked before approaching him. She ran her palms across his matted curls and pulled a comb from her dress. Both were silent as she carefully combed his hair and braided it into Telerin braids. She herself had a cascade of silver tresses dissolved, with only a thin silver rim on her forehead to keep her from falling into her face; they flowed over her shoulders and back to the middle of her thighs. Her touch was gentle, but only her fingers and palms touched him, not her thoughts.

"Ingoldo will have his begetting day tomorrow," she said suddenly. Even in Alqualondë, the passage of time was obviously still calculated by the days measured by the light of the Trees, which were no longer. And Eärwen, like any mother, counted the time measured for her children.

Their firstborn son, conceived and born right here in this room, under the light of stars and the distant glow of Mingling, and now somewhere on the road to darkness. Forever out of their reach. What could be answered?

Her hands in Finarfin's hair stopped, leaving the last braid unfinished.

"They didn't come back with you. None of them."

"None." He turned and slowly dropped to her feet, gripping her suddenly limp hands in his fingers. "Eärwen, forgive me. There was nothing I could do. They are adults, have their own will and have made a firm decision. There was nothing I could do," he repeated more quietly, "just to give them a blessing and my goodwill for the journey."

"That was more," she whispered, "than I gave them." And she opened herself to him for ósanwë, a whirlwind of sorrow, pain and hope without words, lament without tears, hot wave of love and endless grief.

She slid to him on the floor, her fingers knit in his shirt, her face pressed under his collarbone.

"I thought, after what happened, I could never be with you again," she murmured softly, more through the bond of their souls than by the words. "That I can't and mustn't. My brothers... and your brother... I didn't understand. They told me you were here, you saw everything... And you went on anyway. On the way with the murderers of my loved ones. I wasn't sure… oh, Valar, how could I be sure you didn't draw the sword yourself? I knew I wouldn't know until I saw you, but I haven´t wanted to see you... I thought the world had collapsed into darkness, and I was destined to be alone in it. But I can't. And you... You came back to me. Whatever happened... I cannot survive eternity without our children and without you as well."

"And me without you - in that empty house full of darkness. Eärwen, don't leave me. And... come with me home. Please."

"I... don't know," her hands literally burned him over the thin cloth of his shirt. "You can't stay in Alqualondë, not anymore. Even if everyone here was willing to pretend that nothing had happened and to welcome you as they once were, you're not just the king's youngest son anymore. Your duties are elsewhere, and mine... How am I to leave my parents alone, after... And my nephews and nieces... All have lost their fathers or siblings. This is overmuch, Arafinwë. I can't imagine going to Tirion with you and leaving them all behind - I'm a Telerin princess and I have a duty to my people."

"Eärwen, you are also the queen of Noldor."

She looked at him with surprised eyes.

"But that… surely your mother..."

"My mother and Findis stay permanently in Valmar. Nerdanel fled to the country, to her father, and would not return. Anairë… Anairë never liked me much, and I think she blames me for my return as her husband continued his journey. If Noldor have a queen, it is only you."

"So we are trapped in our duties," she said, her silver head nodding. "How much easier it was, then..."

Light of the Mingling in the pass. Their hands tied with a silver ribbon, there was laughter, the warm closeness of their palms and faces. And the night, unusually warm for the middle of the days of rest, smelling of salt and fish, with bright stars, and their longing desire: they are a couple, but they could be more. There could be three – a family. They wished to watch, as from something invisible, but wonderful a new life was created, how he grew, his heart started to beat, and suddenly they can hold him in their arms: a golden-haired child, a tangible fruit of their love…

The days of children passed. Now they were only two again. Nothing more. But also nothing less, and that was a lot. More than they dared to hope for yesterday. There was something else under the grief of his wife that Finarfin felt like his own after they opened up to each other: reciprocity stronger than ever, affection more eternal and more trueful than he had ever experienced it. The hope was rippled by the wind of grief, but it was real - they had, and still can have, one day.

Suddenly he felt an enormous desire to surrender completely, not only with his soul but also with the body. The days of their youth had passed, but the need was here again, and they…

Eärwen pulled him to the ground, on the fur spread out in front of the fireplace, and suddenly everything was light and natural, the touch of their bodies and their minds, both intertwined so that the feelings and thoughts of two became one, and two bodies one, and two souls one.

Only flashing embers remained in the fireplace. One of them probably had pulled the blankets off the bed during the night, because when Finarfin woke up, they were both warm, embraced by soft wool and their intertwined arms. Eärwen stared into the dark ceiling with her eyes half-hidden under her eyelids, her eyes out of focus, so he thought at first that she was sleeping. Then she moved in his arms and the veil of her loose hair slipped on his chest. As they did once, when gold rings had been on their hands for only a day, and for the first time they were alone as husband and wife.

"What were you thinking about, last night?" she asked, though she must know because he knew what she had thought. He sent her a picture and a fuzzy, overlapping memory. The silver-gold light, their gold and silver hair intertwined, the sharp, almost physical need to fulfil the marriage to the end, to be three instead of two, a gentle but incredibly intense thrill from the first fleeting contact with someone who wasn't quite their child yet, but he was already with them - the seed of the future Finrod, and then the others: Angrod, Aegnor, Artanis. The feeling of loss and great joy at the same time, because they once had and will always have, though far beyond their reach. The desire to be a family again, no matter what had happened in the past, and the touch of their children's warm, soft bodies when they held them in their arms for the first time. He wasn't quite sure what he himself felt yesterday, and what Eärwen had. And if he felt it all yesterday, not long ago, before all eternity.

She sighed and pressed herself closer to the safety of his arms, her naked skin to his, but she didn't touch his mind with hers, giving him no solid picture yet, just a tangle of emotions and feelings entwined like a ball. She seemed to be hiding something - not behind the impenetrable wall of past days and years, but… differently.

"That explains everything. Because I too…"

"Eärwen?" He looked into her face and saw tears on her cheeks. "Eärwen!"

She opened her eyes, and there was a smile under her tears: the first real smile since he'd seen her again, on the steps of the Royal Palace, beside her father.

"I'll go back to Tirion with you. We will turn on the lights in your dark house and in your dark city and we let the hope come back in our hearts and live again."

"What happened that you changed your mind?"

She took his hand and pressed it against her body. And at the same time, she lifted the veils… the veils, not the walls, that she had wound around…

"We have gone through inexpressible grief and great evil, and we would have done worse, my husband, if we were not together now. One for the other, and both for our child."

And he suddenly understood what Eärwen knew maybe a few minutes, maybe an hour, from the moment that miracle happened. Through their marital bond he discovered something hidden in her body, tiny and fuzzy, that hadn't been there yesterday. An image of a soul so young and fragile that he couldn't tell if it was a girl or a boy, but it was here. It answered him, like those before it.

It came as a sign, a spark to their eternal night. Blessing.

They were three again, as they once were. They were a family once more.

And when they opened the curtain to look at the sea and beyond, where all their older children had gone, they saw that the snow had also covered Alqualondë at night.


End file.
